


Triggered Signals

by BlushingNewb



Series: All About Chemistry [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Companion Piece, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, For Science!, Friends to Lovers, Insolence, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Prompt Fill, Romance, Sex Pollen, Sherlock Being an Idiot, kind of dubcon but less so than you might think, righteously pissed off Lestrade, still poor John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 04:06:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlushingNewb/pseuds/BlushingNewb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sally Donovan and Greg Lestrade uncover important evidence when they pose as a couple for a case. The two then feel compelled to reexamine this evidence after they become involuntary variables in one of Sherlock Holmes' experiments...</p><p>This is a companion piece to "Escaping the Delta Trap" and a response to the Let's Write Sherlock Challenge 5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Triggered Signals

**Author's Note:**

> This story and "Escaping the Delta Trap" are now part of the series called "All About Chemistry." It's not absolutely essential that you read the first work in the series in order to understand this piece, but "Delta Trap" has all the information about Sherlock's experiment that is merely alluded to here.
> 
> Heed the warnings, please. There is some unwanted touching in this story and the other, but all around the characters have sorted out the issues. There is also Donostrade and a very saucy Sherlock and John idling about in 221B.
> 
> Again, I write for fun and I love kudos, comments, concrit, anything. Thank you for reading and enjoy!

**_May_**  

“Oh, darling, that’s so thoughtful of you,” Sally murmured appreciatively, looking up at Lestrade through sooty lashes. 

She had one bare arm hooked around his elbow and was snugged up close to his side. They were in a mid-range jewelers shop, perusing a selection of anniversary jewelry, and they were currently looking at a selection of those diamond past-present-future necklaces that Lestrade’s ex-wife had so appreciated. They were here on a job, of course - according to Sherlock, the jewelry shop was a front for an MDMA ring. The Consulting Detective, once he made this deduction, had not deemed the investigation worth his further brainpower and, true to form, had buggered off to find some other madness with which to occupy his more-precious-than-gold time. 

Narcotics was definitely not Lestrade’s division, but this particular MDMA ring was tied to a number of grisly, execution-style murders. There was some sort of murderous competition going on between manufacturers, and if they could just get a sample to flush out their knowledge base… 

This locale tailored to middle-class thrill seekers; young professionals who kept it together enough to indulge in the party scene on the weekends. Sally was just the right age for the subterfuge, and Lestrade suppressed a sigh as he once again thought about his own age; the khaki trousers and florid shirt he was wearing now made him feel like a lecherous sugar daddy. Sally was indeed a comfortable and pleasant-smelling armful, but Lestrade felt jarred by her attire and mannerisms. They were convincing – God, they were convincing – but disturbingly uncharacteristic of the woman he worked with.

Sally was wearing some sheer ivory thing that clung to her, and it draped across her slight curves and highlighted the angular planes of her body. Lestrade was at least aware that it was some type of day dress. It had flowers on the front of it and it tied just underneath her breasts _,_

 _admit it, you looked, Lestrade_  

and he supposed it went well with the flats she was wearing. The shoes put her well below Lestrade’s eye level, making him far more uncomfortable than when she wore those pumps. This wasn’t the Sally he knew, and he didn’t like it. She was soft and demure now, but he could still feel _her_ underneath the façade, raw and feral. He closed his eyes and envisioned her, buttoned up in that grey car coat, swinging her torch like a club into the skull of that one assailant. The thug had already laid out Lestrade with a kick in the gut when Sally slammed into him from behind, and she had that bastard bent over and cuffed within seconds.

What a woman. 

Lestrade shook his head and turned his attention back to the matter at hand. The drug ring. Right. 

“Anything for you, baby,” he put his arm around her and rubbed the top of her naked shoulder, even as he cringed internally. How could anyone ever call Sally something as simpering as ‘baby?’ Gorgeous – definitely. Sexy – absolutely. But “baby?” 

Maybe that was what she liked or maybe that was what she got from Anderson. Lestrade supposed there was something she got from him, although he was hard put to imagine what that could be. Even though Anderson was a halfway competent forensics specialist he was still a weasel, and Lestrade had a particular and understandable loathing for adulterers. It had been a while, though, since he saw the two of them together. There had been no drama, no shouting matches, but there was a distance that hadn’t been there before. Perhaps they had drifted apart. 

He caught brown eyes staring candidly up at him, appraisingly. The affectation had dropped away, and there was an expression on Sally’s face that he couldn’t quite place. He coughed, embarrassed to be caught in her scrutiny. 

“I think you should try it on, doll,” he said, with a squeeze to her hand. 

She batted her eyelashes at him again and agreed. The jeweler, who had wet, red eyes and a chronic wheeze, opened the case to withdraw the necklace. Sally turned around and allowed the vendor to hook the necklace at the back of her neck; she fingered the drop diamonds and looked thoughtfully at herself in a mirror. After she finished stroking the gemstones she placed a forefinger right over her bottom lip. Lestrade’s heart skipped a beat. 

“Hal, what do you think?” 

“Er, I dunno. There’s something about it that’s not quite right for you.” 

Sally’s brows drew down and she pouted prettily. 

“Maybe diamonds don’t suit me after all,” she replied. Lestrade picked up the hint – he’d been waiting for it and he turned toward the jeweler. 

“Is there something similar, maybe with more color? The – I guess the drape, you’d call it? looks good, but the colour is all wrong. Is there a different stone that would stand out against her skin?” Lestrade gritted his teeth internally. This was the gamble; this was the chance to see if their act was convincing enough. “Maybe something in blue?” Lestrade asked hopefully. 

The jeweler eyed Sally once more, and she winked back at him saucily. He smiled at her. 

“I think I have just what you’re looking for,” the jeweler replied, and he strode off into the back room. 

Sally demonstrated no visible reaction, but Lestrade felt her body tense against his. He could sense it, too; the evidence they had come for was almost within reach. He could feel adrenaline spiking up through his veins. The thrill of closing in on his quarry was almost tangible, and Sally’s body was echoing it back to him. A decidedly different sensation coursed through his blood at the realization that she, too, loved the hunt. That she also shared his exuberance, his passion for their vocation. Lestrade licked his lips and his eyes flickered downward; he saw the revealed curve of Sally’s right breast rise and fall rapidly, and her warm brown skin had an appealing glow. 

 _oh, God, Lestrade, you pervert_  

“Here we are!” the shopkeeper said triumphantly. Lestrade and Sally pulled away from each other, suddenly aware of how much contact their bodies had been sharing. Still, it was good for their cover. 

The jeweler opened a blue velvet box; inside of it was a silver necklace strung with sparkly pale blue stones in an attempt at vintage imitation. To Lestrade’s eyes it looked rather cheap and tawdry, but Sally took in a deep breath and held out a slim hand to the jewelry. She turned adoring puppy eyes up to Lestrade and cooed at him in a breathy voice, 

“Oh, Hal, this would be perfect!” 

The salesman gave them both an oily smile, and in all the best traditions of commercial exchange, the product was tried on rapidly, insincere compliments were awarded and currency was relinquished almost helplessly. Before they knew it, Lestrade and a newly bejeweled Sally were leaving the shop with stupid grins on their faces. 

Anyone passing them by would have been convinced that they were a couple, deeply in love and celebrating a special occasion. Lestrade almost convinced himself of it for a moment. 

But then a smug Sally shook the shop bag against his arm, with its blue velvet jewel case at the bottom - the box with the false lining that covered a class A illegal substance – and Lestrade was jolted back to reality. Mission accomplished. 

Lestrade, however, felt entirely unaccomplished. As they traversed the blocks back to his car, a familiar loneliness yawned up inside of him, and he knew this was one ruse he didn’t quite want to give up. If only…but no. Entirely unprofessional and unreciprocated. It didn’t help that Sally beamed at him when he suggested coffee for the drive back. His stomach flip-flopped at her rare, pretty smile, but his heart clenched up and ached. The day seemed to stretch on ahead of him, and the next, until all the future days seemed to blend together like a grey, joyless and threadbare tapestry. 

* * *

**_July, morning_ **

It was another day at the job, a job Sally loved. A case had just been closed and she had finished her final written summary in the Met’s paperwork management program. She turned to her overflowing email inbox and reflected as she deleted and diverted messages to different folders. She treasured the details of her profession – she enjoyed the procedure, the puzzles and above all, the justice. There was worth in what she did; she had value, and no one could ever take that away from her, and it was no surprise that with her passion for the job she had gained a reputation as a workaholic. Sally’s life revolved around the Yard, and friends from home and school had dropped away to be replaced by her colleagues on the force. She felt she could be wholly herself here, driven and hard. 

There was also her boss, DI Lestrade, whom Sally deeply respected – he was experienced and dedicated, with just enough detachment to get the job done. She even forgave him for calling in Sherlock Holmes from time to time, now that she knew the whole story, and if Greg could swallow his pride with grace and admit that he was ignorant about how to proceed on a case, then so could she. ‘Course, Holmes was still a freak. The first time he came back to the Yard and she saluted him with the (in her mind, entirely justified) moniker, he had looked away and one corner of his mouth had turned up. Then he had deduced her previous night alone with the telly and a generous slice of tiramisu, the spiteful bastard, but it was almost a comfort that their mutual hatred never waned. It still pleased her, though, that Sherlock had been wrong that night in Lauriston Gardens, that it hadn’t been _Sally_ on her knees wearing women’s trousers at all. 

Ugh, Anderson. That was a series of mistakes she didn’t plan on repeating. It had been easier to bond with a colleague, but clearly, she would have to look elsewhere for a satisfying relationship. She clicked the red X on one email in particular and sighed deeply. Sally hadn’t been on a satisfying date in nearly a year; she found them boring and awkward, and by the time they were over she had usually spooked a potential bedmate with descriptions of her profession. Sally liked yoga, hiking in Scotland, Humphrey Bogart films and throwing clay pots (it had been so long, though, since she’d had access to a kiln and her wheel was broken) but she always found her conversation turning to the job. Men didn’t know how to compete with it, and more than one date had been interrupted by the buzzing of her mobile. Larry was in the middle of nuzzling her breasts, her shirt half-off, when her phone let out an alert. He had never called her back after the Night of Aborted Foreplay. 

Now, DI Lestrade…she wouldn’t mind getting to know him better. Sally rolled her cursor over a message, moved it to the folder she labeled “handled,” and continued scrolling. She’d felt their chemistry at the jeweler’s shop, but it had gone nowhere. Disappointing, that. She’d liked the expression that crossed his dark brown eyes, the way he wasn’t quite able to focus. It had been…erotic to see him so ruffled and unsettled. 

“Sergeant, I’m going to need you later,” Lestrade said, holding a stack of files in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. 

Sally jumped up several centimeters from her seat and the mouse clattered away from her hand. She raised her eyebrows as she took in Lestrade’s appearance; he was still chuckling over her surprise. In spite of the heat he was professional as ever, clad in dark grey suit jacket and buttoned up shirt. He looked so cool – it was only eight o’clock and Sally had already needed to wrap her hair in a chignon to keep it from sticking to her neck. 

“I’ve got Holmes coming in to look at those files we talked about the other day. We’ve had no new leads and I might as well bring him in – you know the details on a couple of them better than me, so we’ll all go down to floor five when he gets in.” 

A frown slid onto her face, but she could be professional, too. 

“Yeah, ok. You never know, looking at it with fresh eyes might be just the ticket.” 

“Thanks, Sergeant - you’re the bees knees.” 

Sally suddenly felt her face glow with pleasure and a warmth curled itself around her inner thighs. She smiled back up at the detective inspector, reveling in the comfortable simplicity of the moment in spite of the fact that the day promised to be far too long, complicated and hot. 

* * *

**_Later that same day_ **

Speaking of hot, when had _John Watson_ turned into a sex god? Lestrade had beckoned her over when Watson and Holmes left his office, and when she bumped up against the doctor while entering the lift she felt all the blood in her body rush to her nipples. She could barely think, and when the lift shuddered to an unexpected halt on the way to the fifth floor, it was all she could do to focus on breathing. The heat was tangible and it pressed against her like a curtain on all sides. She had to have John. It didn’t matter that Holmes and Lestrade were there in the lift with them. It didn’t matter that she had never in her life been interested in Watson. She needed to touch John, kiss him, lay claim to him _now_. She wanted to make him beg and plead, she wanted to taste him. She wanted to make him howl for her, and she knew she could. 

In a haze she turned to Lestrade and pulled his ear over to her mouth.

 _Hmm, Greg felt pretty good, too_  

“I’ll grab him first, then you can join me on the other side.” 

Greg whispered back to her, 

“Never had a man, but... show…show me what to do? I…I…don’t know why, I want _him_ , though, Sally, but I don’t know how to do this.” 

Sally slid a finger down his cheek and Greg shuddered. 

“Yeah, it’ll be easy. I know how to please a man, just follow my lead.” 

Greg let out a dark chuckle, and Sally advanced. 

* * *

In less than five minutes Holmes snatched John away from them both. A crushing disappointment went through Sally and she snapped at him – of course John was happier in Freak’s arms, they’d probably been shagging for years. It was the biggest letdown of the century and they both sank to the floor together. She leaned against Greg, indignation rising up through her throat, but she stilled as she felt Greg’s mouth press against hers. 

 _oh, hello there_

The smell of John was all around them, and it was so easy to tell Greg that was why she wanted him. So easy but not entirely true. If it hadn’t been Greg – if it had been Holmes instead – she would have pushed him away without a second thought after stomping on his instep. Instead, Sally licked open Greg’s lips and plucked his shirt buttons open. In turn Greg angled his tongue into her mouth with smooth, thorough sweeps, and Sally moaned at his patient, repetitive onslaught. She pursed her mouth against his bottom lip and pulled gently, and Greg gripped her tightly in turn. Sally pulled back and ran a hand down his chest, and her stomach flip-flopped when she made contact with an extremely impressive erection, straining the fabric of his trousers. She chuckled into his mouth and pressed her hand around him; he actually twitched at her touch and Sally felt herself clench deep inside. 

“Keeping secrets, Greg?” she breathed out. 

He stroked underneath her right breast and slid a single fingertip over her nipple; it peaked up at the touch and Sally’s hips jerked toward Greg. 

“If you think that’s nice now, wait ‘til you see it in action,” he mumbled against her lips. He trailed his hand downward now, pausing at her waistband, and Sally sucked in a quick breath to create a gap wide enough for his fingers 

 _yes yes yes_  

when the lift stuttered to a halt and opened with a sickly “ding.” Sally and Lestrade were nearly trampled by the sudden broad steps of Holmes’ Italian leather shoes and the slightly postponed clatter of John’s boots. A swift breeze swept into the lift with their absence and cool air suddenly poured around the entangled couple on the floor. In spite of all usual protocol, the lift doors had frozen open – clearly, it was still inoperable. Sally gulped eagerly at the new lightness in the atmosphere and she felt eyelashes beating rapidly against her neck. 

“Donovan?” 

It was spoken softly in a tone that could only be described as tentative. Sally shook her head several times and her cheek brushed up against a slightly stubbly jaw. 

“Donovan? What…?” 

How could she even begin to answer that question? Sally was only just becoming cognizant again of the fact that they were on the floor of one of the Yard’s lifts. She was on the floor with DI Lestrade, with her hand pressed onto a firm, well-toned thigh… 

She started backwards a bit, pulling her hands away from him as she peered at his face. His brows were drawn down but his mouth was still slightly parted, lips wet, tongue just lightly poised at his bottom lip. 

“Greg, when we got in…and then the lift must’ve stopped…” 

As she spoke it was as though the tendrils of cool air cleared away the fog in her brain and she wriggled away from Greg, toward the side of the lift. 

“Holmes and…hmm, John…they’ve run off…” 

Greg finally put his hands to his head and rubbed until the silver strands stood up in disarray. Sally watched several expressions cross his face, replacing the blank look of confusion with bewilderment, recognition, recollection, calculation, surprise, alarm 

 _please don’t let there be regret_  

and what could finally be called self-reproach. They both began talking at once, their words overlapping and blocking out almost all things of import except one. 

“Sally, oh, no….” 

“I shouldn’t have…but John, he was…” 

“Then why? He and Sherlock…” 

“Holmes…what did he…” 

“Sherlock…” 

“Holmes, you bastard!” screaming, Greg jumped up with an _angry_ look on his face and slammed his fist against the wall of the lift. 

It was at that fortunate moment (for Sherlock, anyway) that both of their mobiles let out simultaneous angry buzzes. Greg checked his first, and this time, they didn’t layer their words over each other but spoke as one: 

“Multiple homicide! That’s our division!” 

* * *

Lestrade’s tongue felt like sandpaper. There wasn’t much more rolling around his head at the moment than that unspectacular nugget of knowledge. He passed out again. 

Two hours later, Lestrade blinked at vibrant yellow beams that played across his bedroom. It was quite pleasant, really, having a late afternoon lie-in watching dust motes while pondering the previous day’s [night’s] corralling of evidence, eyewitness reports and, finally, the confrontation in the interview room that led to the tearstained confession of the desperately confused young man who had somehow mistaken human passerby for vindictive pigeons. As Greg considered the resolution of this case, his beleaguered mind amused itself by bringing forth a poncy Sherlock Holmes snorting “boring,” in that cultured voice of his. 

And for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, a fully awake Greg Lestrade jumped up nearly half a meter in the air and shouted out, 

“Sherlock Holmes, you bastard!” 

If Lestrade were the sort of man to consider murdering someone, he would say that the bottom of the Thames would never make a satisfactory location for hiding a body. 

* * *

_rec’d 4:43pm_  

 ** _don’t know how but it was you you consulting fuckwit, complete bloody arse can’t leave shit alone. utter tit you owe explanation if you even hope to step foot in my Yard again fuck you so much homes Ill put my foot up your BORED arse!!!! ~GL_**  

A somewhat but not entirely chastened Sherlock Holmes smirked to himself at 221B Baker Street. But because he was somewhat chastened after all he swiftly left the flat to call in a favour. 

* * *

It had taken nearly two hours for Lestrade to peel himself off the ceiling and compose himself into something that demonstrated the proper gravitas of a detective inspector. It wouldn’t do at all to go storming into private residences to drag citizens out into the street by their dark, curly hair. Not even if said hair would make one’s grip sure and certain. No, any corrective action needed to be taken with _aplomb_ and _dignity_ , so Greg made sure he had his handcuffs and badge with him. 

He was somewhat mollified as he passed a giggling Mrs. Hudson downstairs, and the thought occurred to him that she was indeed a sweet woman, if a bit daft for putting up with Sherlock. Lestrade didn’t stand on ceremony, he was beyond all that, and he tromped up the seventeen stairs and swung open the door to the flat without knocking. He spied no occupants but heard a rustling noise from what he knew to be the kitchen, so he turned and…stopped dead in his tracks, flabbergasted at the sight before him. His mouth fell open. 

Sherlock, the man he knew, the intense insane savant who probably slept in bloody Savile Row, the man he had worked with for nearly ten years, stood clad only in loose pajama bottoms tied precariously around his hips. His hair was mussed – sex hair?! and there was a purplish bruise at the conjunction of his neck and shoulder. Lestrade’s brain disagreed with what his eyes were seeing so at its command the eyes bounced over to the other figure in the room, John Watson. Watson was lounging, no, splaying, in one of the kitchen chairs, lazily holding a butter knife covered in red ooze with one hand. A couple of slathered toast slices lay carelessly on a plate in front of him but it was Watson’s attire that shorted out portions of Lestrade’s brain. He wore a tight white vest and pants, both of which were clearly visible because the blue dressing gown on top was hanging wide open. The sleeves were rolled up several times, and it was this final detail at which Lestrade’s face crinkled in befuddlement, and he let out an involuntary

“Phwoar?” 

Eloquence achieved, Lestrade’s gaze shifted again to Sherlock and he was horrified to notice a distinct red smear at the corner of the detective’s mouth. Lestrade dropped the handcuffs onto the rug and put his head in his hands, defeated. All logic had just departed from the world. 

“Oh, bugger all.” 

* * *

“I don’t know what you expected,” a supercilious Sherlock told a sagging Lestrade, who had lapsed into a fugue state in John’s chair. In spite of his bedraggled appearance, Sherlock raised a haughty nose into the air and rolled his eyes over at John, who ignored him. 

“Lestrade, there’s no point in us going through it, because what you really need to know…” 

Lestrade couldn’t meet his eyes while John soothed him. 

“…is that it’s sorted. It’s really and truly all sorted, and it won’t ever happen again.” 

On that last word, John’s voice dipped down and Lestrade sensed rather than saw that it was aimed directly at Sherlock. In turn, Sherlock straightened as if responding to some command and reiterated John’s words, nodding. 

“He’s right. Won’t happen again.” 

Lestrade sighed deeply and looked down at his lap. That it would happen again was really the smallest of his problems. Examining the lines on the top of his hands, he mumbled, 

“How’m I supposed to explain this to Sergeant Donovan. God help me, I ought to turn myself in for sexual assault…on John, God…and Sally, she’ll…Sally…” 

In shame, Lestrade twisted his hands and a lump rose up in his throat. So much of this seemed unrecoverable, and here these two idiots were absolutely reveling in the aftermath of the disaster. 

“Don’t be a fool, Lestrade,” Sherlock interrupted. 

Lestrade looked up with clenched fists and fire in his eyes, ready to bust Sherlock’s nose at any sign of further insult. 

“Sergeant Donovan would not thank you for depriving her of your company. You’ve been dancing around each other for months, the exp- “ 

John coughed loudly and hastily, clutching his chest and stamping his foot on the floor, interrupting Sherlock mid word. He hacked out a barely discernable – 

“Sorry, crumbs!” and wheezing, he stole a look at Sherlock, who raised a single eyebrow and then dismissed him. The lanky detective began pacing back and forth, waving a single hand in the air while the pajama bottoms valiantly hung on for dear life.  

“Anyway, as I was saying, yes, ha, _your experience_ in the lift – while attributable to causes I, of course, cannot fully understand - was clearly a response to signals that you and the Sergeant have been exchanging for some time.” 

Lestrade was speechless. Quite honestly, he had done very little talking since he entered the flat, and while continued silence certainly had its appeal, he had to ask. 

“Sally…she…feels for me?” 

A withering and all-too-familiar disdain settled over Sherlock’s face and his lip curled; he turned to the window in disgust. 

“Oh, sentiment, ugh, obviousl- “ 

This time John’s cough sounded far more like a snort of derisive laughter, so Lestrade took advantage of the pause and pressed for further explanation. 

“Well, how do you know she…fancies me? And just what am I supposed to say to her? 'I really think you’re one of the finest officers I’ve ever known, sorry I groped you in a lift, want to go for a date?' ” 

Lestrade had asked and Sherlock delivered this time, too – the main problem was that he never _stopped_. 

“She wears eyeliner every day but only chooses the MAC smoky kohl when you’re on shift with her, if we happen to have coffee at the same time at the station she brings you the sugar caddy first, even though she uses it, too, her brow has a unique wrinkle when she sees you haven’t slept in more than eighteen hours, she hasn’t had a date in over three months even though that Hillner guy gave her his number and when she’s at home or wearing a high-necked shirt she wears the same type of necklace that you got from the shop dealing in MDMA. See? Sentiment.” 

Lestrade stared at the back of Sherlock’s head for what must have been minutes. Silence settled over the flat and Lestrade wondered how this had become his life – he couldn’t decide if he was terrified or overjoyed by the fact that the woman he was definitely interested in (and whose pants he had nearly gotten _in_ ) was also interested in him. It had been a long time since Lestrade had taken a risk with his heart. 

Sherlock turned back from the window and met his eyes, slowly making his way back across the flat. He paused in the middle of the room and his glance flicked over to where John sat at the table, and Lestrade would have sworn that that hawk-like glare softened. Lestrade would have bet good money that it did. 

“There is one course of action that does occur to me,” Sherlock mused casually. 

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?” 

“An honest confession of one’s affections can sometimes yield favourable results. It has been known to happen from time to time. Every now and then. Sometimes it can even yield the best of all possible results.” 

And at this last statement, Sherlock actually _blushed_. Lestrade pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, but sure enough, the madman’s cheeks were pink as cherry blossoms. Said man was now walking over to their refrigerator and retrieving a modest wire basket with an array of small packages, which, when presented to Lestrade, were revealed to be gourmet coffees. Among the labels were the names “Kona” and “Jamaican Blue,” and while this meant absolutely nothing to Greg Lestrade, the man to whom all coffees were as one coffee, they would mean quite a lot to Sergeant Donovan approximately three hours later. 

“Do I even want to know how much this cost?” Lestrade asked warily, surveying the beans. 

“No.” 

“This isn’t enough. Not nearly enough to make up for…all that,” Lestrade indicated with a sideways jerk of his head. 

“Well.” 

It wasn’t a question, but Lestrade would certainly take it as one. 

“I expect twenty cold cases. Even the boring ones.” 

“No, I couldn’t possibly. Five, maybe - I’ve got too much on.” 

“No deal. Fifteen or it’s a drugs bust and a ride in the back of the police car.” 

Now sitting back at the kitchen table, Sherlock ground his fist into his own thigh. 

“Ten.” 

Lestrade grinned. That was the precise number he had reserved for such an occasion, and they were all “boring.” They had also stumped the last two officers who had perused them as an exercise. 

“Deal. You’re still a consulting fuckwit with a god complex, but it’s a deal anyway.” 

John sniggered but brushed a curl off of Sherlock’s forehead with extreme tenderness and at that Lestrade hoisted himself out of the chair with his coffees in tow. As he turned to the door, Sherlock said, 

“Oh, Lestrade, another thing. Sally does so have a fondness for raspberry tart, if you want something to go with the coffee.” 

John piped up energetically from the far side of the table. 

“Yeah, Sherlock, that’s a good idea. You never know who might turn out to like sweets.” 

Incredulous, Lestrade did a double take and caught John ogling Sherlock with the most salaciously wanton expression he had ever had the misfortune to observe. The unassuming doctor licked his lips slowly at the detective and let his lips mouth over a silent and undoubtedly obscene phrase. Lestrade’s patience over the whole situation snapped and he stamped his foot on the rug, hard. 

“Fuck off, the pair of you!” 

Satisfied, he swung open the door and didn’t bother to close it behind him, but Mr. Punchline shouted gleefully after him, 

“Soon!” 

* * *

It was early evening when Sally heard the knock at the door. She pulled out of her stretch, slid a headband in place and looked through the peephole… 

Greg! 

There must have been a good thirty seconds where the world paused in its orbit of the sun; at least, that was the best explanation for the sensation of having been frozen in place and stuck in time. She could hear herself breathing and with that awareness, the seconds started to tick again. 

As she observed Greg through the glass he bent his head down to stare at something in his hands. Sally couldn’t tell what he was holding, but his lowered head seemed like an admission of guilt or regret – or, more optimistically on her part, a supplication from a shy worshipper. Was it so wrong that Sally desperately hoped for the latter? 

Recalling a phrase that one of her former history professors had favoured, she took fortune into her own hands and opened the door. 

The bashful smile on Greg’s face triggered her own, and Sally felt more muscles in her jaw move than she had since their time at the jewelry shop. They stood awkwardly in the doorway, grinning at each other like loons. 

“Greg…I’m glad you came.” 

“Really? I thought, well, I really felt bad about what happened, so I wanted to apologize…”

He awkwardly handed her the wire basket and she laid it on a side table without looking at it; when she turned back to Greg she took both of his hands in her own. 

“Er, ok, this is ok…” 

“Greg, there’s only three things I really want to know.” 

“Alright.” 

“Did Freak get his comeuppance?” 

Lestrade thought over his answer to this question carefully. While it was true that Sherlock hadn’t gotten the beating he so richly deserved, he wasn’t quite the same man who had walked onto the lift with them yesterday. The duo’s disgustingly affectionate behavior bore witness to the fact that Sherlock had not passed through the ordeal entirely unaffected. As irritating as it had been to see their flirtations, Lestrade found it deeply satisfying that the superhuman genius had succumbed to something as ordinary as love. 

“Well, in a manner of speaking, certainly, and I’ve extracted a weighty penalty for his involvement. I’m assured by the highest authority that it won’t happen again.” 

Upon further reflection, Lestrade had noticed Sherlock exhibiting a distinct deference to John anytime they had come close to discussing the precise details of the incident. It seemed John was calling the shots on this, and Lestrade couldn’t imagine that he would want to see a repetition of any of yesterday’s events. 

“Greg, do you think it will happen again?” 

“Honestly, no. It’s too weird and too unlikely – I mean, if you think about it, it’s ludicrous.” 

“Oh,” she said, and her eyes were downcast. She dropped Greg’s hands and he felt a stone sink into the pit of his stomach. 

“Don-…Sally, what else did you want to ask me?” 

She took a few step backwards and then turned away to fleck away an imaginary bit of dust from the back of the sofa. 

“It’s not important,” she said with a mostly suppressed sigh. Greg stepped closer to her again and then laid a tentative hand on her upper arm. 

“Sally? Even if it’s…not important, I’ll answer it.” 

She looked up at him and saw liquid brown eyes staring back at her, consuming her. He had watched her that same way in that alley, at the jewelry shop, at the Yard, in the car, and yes, oh, God, yes, in the lift. Those eyes consumed her, not like a hot fire, pent on destruction, but like she was a banquet of earthly delights and he was a man who had been starving for years. 

“Would you want it to happen again?” she asked. 

In response, he breathed in slowly, leaned over her and gently touched his lips to hers. 

“Yes,” he whispered, “but like this. Just like this.” 

She cupped her hand around his face and, at last, her heart’s cries for pleasure had been answered. A deep longing welled up inside of her to touch him, so slowly and so thoroughly that she knew she would never have enough time in her life, but she tried anyway, tracing her thumbs over his cheeks, beside his nose, up and over his brows. When he closed his eyes, she grazed his eyelids and then buried her head in his chest. 

“So long I've waited…but so much time I want. There will never be enough.” 

She didn’t expect him to understand, but he did, and he stroked her hair and wrapped his other arm around her. They stood for a long while, and while it wasn’t forever, it was a start. 

* * *

Somewhat later that evening, while Sally ground a pound of beans worth more than one hundred quid, Lestrade exclaimed in an excited voice, 

“Is that _The Maltese Falcon_? I love Bogart in that!” 

Sally had never had a better evening. The coffee was delicious, wild and rugged, with undertones redolent of the sirocco, and when they finally collapsed into unconsciousness on the sofa at half-past three with _The Big Sleep_ in the background, all that mattered was the time they had shared together.

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock is the property of the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat. Sherlock Holmes is public domain. My thanks to Arthur Conan Doyle.


End file.
